A Different Fate
by Daastan Go
Summary: When Itachi decides to take Sasuke with him on that fateful night, things take a different turn from what he had expected.
1. A Decision

**A Different Fate**

 **Disclaimer** : Naruto and all its characters are Kishimoto's legal property. I'm not making any money off this story; however, all the Original Characters, Original Plot-lines, and Original Themes are my own.

 **Rating** : Mature due to language, sensitive themes, and violent and sexual situations.

 **Main Themes and Genres** : Moral Relativism, Realism, Family; Angst, Drama, and (Political) Mystery.

 **Supporting Themes and Genres** : Tragedy, Horror, and Erotica.

 **Prominent Characters** : Uchiha Sasuke and Uchiha Itachi.

 **Yaoi/Incest Fans** : Don't expect any Yaoi/Incest concepts in my fictions. Look elsewhere if they give you elusive moments of gratification.

 **Warning** : Realistic military protocols, conflicting philosophies, non-sexual male bonding; violent character deaths, morbid content, promiscuity, and ideas this fandom isn't used to. Those who are averse to such things can stop reading now and find the work that suits their highly _interesting_ tastes.

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 **Chapter One** : A Decision

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The night was young, and his heart was younger still. Life was a thing of wonder for a young boy of five. Tonight was _that_ night when he would sit down and have a talk with his father. He said that he was his son. His heart elated with the fondest and sweetest hope he drew from the memory. His father had said that he was his son—truly, his son!

A smile spread on Sasuke's small face. His cheeks were ruddy, and all that running made his heart beat so loudly. The mist was tall around him tonight, and the forest was like the dark strokes of an ink-brush. His mother said that it often got that way before autumn. He poured more strength into his thin, small legs and ran harder, and his heart responded just the same: it pounded like a temple's gong in his ears.

Sasuke ran through the curtain of night mist, watching the big and wide road taper off into the stone pathway of Uchiha compound. His feet faltered on the familiar path, and he suddenly stopped. He felt someone was watching him. His gaze wandered skyward, and he caught sight of something: a dark phantom sitting before the full moon! And then it was gone just like that!

What was that? He peered into the darkness again, but everything behind the trees was dark and blurry. He wished he had a Sharingan! It would make things so easy. His soft mouth twisted into a frown, and again he ran towards the wide-open gates.

The air carried the stench of something he could not understand; it smelt putrid. He coughed and slowed down his running to a walking pace. His small hesitant feet traversed the ground as if they were doing it for the very first time. The lampposts were out and only one flickered close to a house that was silent and dark beneath the shadow of a large tree.

Sasuke looked around and his heart shuddered, skipping a beat after a loud, resounding one that he forgot to breathe. They were lying everywhere! He could not see their faces, but he could see the stained Uchiha symbol on their backs. Shadows lay upon them like airy-lids of graves. He could not hear a single breath—not even a tiny whine of protest. Gone. Everyone . . . gone!

He frantically looked about, his eyes prickling, his lips trembling with the enormity of terror. His skin became a burthen for his tiny frame. His bones vibrated inside the mortal crucible as though it wanted liberation by dancing to the melody from death's lips. Morbid, disgusting, revolting little sweet thing that was afraid of something it knew not.

A silent-hush fell down over the whole compound. Wind was just beginning to find its speed and strength. And he, too, willed strength into the small legs that quaked with a fear he still did not understand. His mind was a fragile tripwire now that awaited a slight disturbance to land that fear within his small belly and make him run, run, run!

A small sound, which came from the right, and he could not even register what it was; but he willed such strength into his legs that he bolted to his sanctuary, hoping, dreaming, and mournfully waiting that he would find his parents and brother alive, safe.

Sasuke squeezed his eyes that beheld the horrors, little tears stinging on his cheeks and that little mouth that still held the rosy innocence of childhood. Feet found purchase on their own and silent houses sped past him.

Everything was just a blur to him—the foetid compound submerged in the smoke of eternal gloom and dread that was once his home. In that moment, it did not matter: little children who played with him under the shade of the wide tree did not; the sweet smell of the flowers did not. Nothing! All that was left in the whole world was that little beating heart and its loud sounds in the theatrical echo-chamber of his frame. Such a small body and how sweetly it struggled to find refuge in the stronger arms of its progenitor.

Red was in the air, but he zipped by the silent sleepers, eager to press himself against the bosom of his brother. He would protect him. He surely would. He was strong. He was kind. There came into his heart a tingling sensation, and a wellspring of hope opened in the dark corner of its chamber. He could still make it. The killer had not noticed him—yet!

Sasuke gritted his teeth and ran down the familiar path. The lantern outside the entrance door was still lit, but he could hear nothing from inside. Moths fluttered around the light, eager to press themselves against the flame for a painful salvation; their wings were so loud in the pin-drop silence.

Slowly, he stepped on the wooden floor, and it creaked so loudly, announcing his presence. He had never really noticed the sound in the hustle and bustle of the compound. It was like the place drowned it out. Now, it hung there as a reminder of how alone he was this night—truly alone _. Lonely little child, sad little child that sought the refuge of his brother's shadow_.

His trembling hand reached out, and he felt his muscles painfully protest against his decision. He pressed it against the cold familiar wood and felt the roughness of its textures on the sweaty palm of his hand.

Sasuke's senses had heightened beyond belief. He could hear everything: the slight tap of the bamboo wood in the garden behind his house, the soft mewling of a babe somewhere beyond the compound, and the threatening hiss of a snake in the bushes. Even his skin was like the silkiest of velvets that felt the caresses of his sweaty hair and the touch of cool wind on the innumerable drops of sweat, which graced his whole body like greying pearls.

He pushed the door a little more, and a rank smell of something dead rushed out that nearly set him to retching. It did not feel right—the smell was not right. He pushed it with all the force he could muster and looked at the vivid blood upon the mat in the moon-washed light. It was so red.

A shapely body lay upon the other, but the supple bosom was still. He could see the stain of red on the side of petal-like lips—a ruined butterfly on a lily. His mother! Fear pared off his outer shell, and he slowly noticed the menacing shadow that stood tall over him.

"N-Nii-San . . . why?" Sasuke asked, his voice catching, his eyes seeing the sin on that clean sword. His _own_ brother had killed them all.

"Foolish brother," he spoke in a voice he had never heard from his lips before, and his blood ran cold. He opened his new eyes and something hit him like a heavy old cart that crushed his bones. The beast was set loose upon his soul, and his memories were pried away and rent from his mind and torn apart like the ravaged rump of a wailing child; its savagery was wanton, insatiable.

Sasuke saw it all: the fall of the sword and the arcs of blood and the vivid guts in the lantern's light. He could not breathe. It was a lie. His brother loved him with all his heart. It was a lie! And then it passed, a silent beast scuttling away into the maw of hell after it had had its fill of his flesh. His raised his watery, half-mast eyes and stared deep into those uncaring eyes and anger set his soul alight.

He ran towards his brother, ready to crush him, end him, but he was too weak. Foolish little brother—he knew better than to take him on. One blow and he was flat on his stomach, his eyes meeting their corpses and he wept. Weakness became a forerunner of his fear, and his wiry muscles vibrated like mechanical dolls in the careless hands of a babe.

He wept in a fit of convulsions and ran out into the open. The fresh air did not give his soul any solace. It was in such pain from the taint that had inflicted itself upon it—the rancid filth of reality, betrayal.

Itachi found him again and tossed a kunai at the ground before him, telling him about killing his own friend to exact vengeance upon the foul fiend he had become. He fell forward, but his will poured force defiantly into his being. Something crumbled in him, a red taint of wonder in his eyes.

Itachi jumped away, leaving him to fight a new battle, but fear had given way to anger; it carved its own path and he was a ferocious, wounded, cornered little animal. His Genjutsu had hamstrung him, but his will was stronger. Kill. Kill. Kill. He dashed forward, his limbs carrying him upon the soft currents of air.

The breeze was quick and brisk as it came off the river and pushed against him like something relentless, and he pushed back, chasing his tormenter as he jumped upon the house and launched three kunais to stab his head. Itachi turned at just the right moment; one ricocheted off his headband and it fell off his forehead. Sasuke did not know when he deflected the other two.

Sasuke's strength left him, and he just dropped down like a heavy stone, clutching his arm and baring his teeth against a groan. He would not let him see the weakness he saw in his brother's eyes as tears. He did not understand; and then it all became a blur, and his angry beast fell asleep so suddenly . . .

When he opened his eyes a vague and blurry canvas of stars greeted him. It was swaying. He turned his eyes a little to the right and noticed that he was in the arms of a man whose face was in the shadows. He peered deep into that darkness, and as if the man could feel his innocent gaze upon him, he looked down. It was . . . Itachi!

Sasuke's body started trembling, and he tried to curl into himself. A part of his small heart was afraid of his cowardice. He was going to kill him. He had already killed everyone. Why take him outside to commit such an act? He thought he understood his brother, but he did not.

Itachi stopped and calmly looked down; his face was unusually blank that cast a gloomy pall over his soul. He had killed everyone. His brother was evil—a bad seed. Sasuke gritted his teeth but was too afraid to move his body.

"Are you hungry, Sasuke?" he asked, his lips moving in the darkness of the night. The moon shone brightly behind him.

Sasuke only stared, his eyes peering over the cloth he was wrapped in, his heart beating ferociously in his tiny, frail breast. He did not say anything in response. His tongue was too heavy, like a heartless beast had ripped his fleshy one out and replaced it with a piece of heavy iron. It was dry and swollen.

He shifted the arm under Sasuke's small back, and the little boy, muddily and half-consciously, raised a startled cry. "We can stop at a small inn. I'll buy you whatever you want to eat," he spoke softly, a ghostly smile crossing his tight lips, and then he started walking again with slow firm steps. Night's wind was so kind and sweet on his cheeks.

Itachi did not stop and the stars and the purple sky kept swaying. Sasuke did not know what was happening, but he kept quiet, feeling strange sensations thrumming in his skull. And then the little boy warily turned his gaze just a little and saw that they had left the lights of Konoha far behind them . . .

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 **Canon-Manga Info** : The scene concerning the Kunais is canon; it took place _exactly_ as I've written it.


	2. Runaway Kid

**Chapter Two** : Runaway Kid

 **Warning** : Grotesque sexual references. Reader discretion is advised. I don't give out warnings, but I thought this one would do just fine. This is the first and last warning for this story. Expect a lot of morbid and bizarre things not many would find acceptable. (You'd have to be open-minded regarding my content.)

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Itachi walked quietly through the forest that cried out a new song in this cool autumn's night. Dry limbs creaked overhead as if locked in a furious and primal struggle to conquer the other. It was noisy; he could barely hear himself think. Sasuke was quiet in his arms. His big eyes were drooping, but he could see him fighting against sleep.

After an hour long struggle, Itachi saw him jerk his eyes open a few times, and then he suddenly fell asleep. He was exhausted. His Genjutsu and the ordeal had left him with such a frail mind. He squeezed the little boy to himself and watched as Sasuke, almost instinctively, crossed his tiny plump arms across his breast in an attempt to protect himself from something unseen. It pained him but he did not stop. His rigid legs carried him across the ground as the wind churned leaves by his feet, and a little spray of rain hit his face.

He walked, for Sage knows how long, listening to the sounds of hisses and shushes burrow into his ears to turn into his listening. Finally, he saw a light up ahead, just past the bent. Yellow lanterns were hung at the gates. They bobbed and knocked into one another, their flames guttering dangerously on the wicks. It was a small village the traders' guild had set-up about a hundred miles outside the Land of Rivers' border.

It would do just fine. Nobody would ask him of his business. He had made sure to discard his jacket and Anbu mask: they were things of the past. His forehead protector was tucked away in his back-pocket. He wore an ordinary black cloak. No one would be able to suspect a thing. As he drew near the entrance, he pulled the cloak over Sasuke's body and pulled the cowl low over his face, casting an impenetrable shadow on his young countenance that appeared cold and hard and disappointed by the indiscriminate killings.

Two guards chatted away as he passed through the heavy gate. They did not even send a curious glance his way. He memorized their faces out of habit and kept walking. Rough barks of laughter chased him for a good fifty feet before the wind overpowered them. Shadows bent sharply behind the lights; the rough street was still teeming with people. They would probably uproot everything and move elsewhere come morning. All for the better. He did not want to linger here; he could not afford it—Sasuke could not afford it.

Itachi found the inn tucked under trees and a lopsided sign. He looked up and found the prices affordable. Adjusting his arm under Sasuke's buttocks, he raised him up with the other hand to press his small body against his breast. The little boy made a soft sobbing sound and went silent again. His steady, soft breaths were warm against his neck and his plump, rosy cheek was pressed to his shoulder. He was sleeping soundly.

Pressing a hand behind Sasuke's head, he walked into the Inn. The air in here was filled with the smell of dry flowers in the vases. The Inn keeper was a fat old man. He did not ask too many questions. He paid for one night and walked down the haphazardly constructed corridor to his room. The wood around him creaked as if it was about to be pulled out of the earth. The man let out a sputtering, nervous laugh, assuring him that the chakra seals would keep them down. Itachi did not believe him for a second.

He opened the padlock with stubby, greasy fingers and laughed, his puffy mustache quivering. Finally, after muttering out a few words in a very squeaky voice about _honest_ and _hardworking_ people of this village, he scuttled away to his desk. Itachi stepped into the dimly lit room and secured the door from inside. It was comfortable enough for a night's stay. They had even placed a fresh water pail by the futon.

Itachi took two steps and lowered Sasuke gently on the futon. He was still hugging himself, but there was no sign of discomfort on his face. He pulled the kakebuton over his small body, and he curled up into a ball immediately, letting out a breathy little sigh of contentment in his sleep. The cold outside had probably been bothering him.

Itachi cast him a worried look and then moved around the room, putting seals on the walls to secure it for one night. When he got satisfied, his red and penetrating gaze roved around, finding nothing unusual around them. Outside, dry branches smacked against the wooden facades, but it was not as noisy as he had thought.

Emitting a weary sigh, Itachi lay down beside Sasuke and pulled the kakebuton over himself. He wanted to wake Sasuke up to eat something, but he was sleeping so peacefully that he did not have the heart to disturb him out of his dreams. He skittered a hand through Sasuke's ruffled, damp hair and draped an arm around the child and drew him closer. Sasuke let out another sleepy whimper, shrinking into himself, his cheeks growing redder in the light of the lamp; then he was as quiet as a lily.

As Itachi slowly fell asleep, he drifted off into a deep nightmare that haunted his unconscious mind. Red, everything was red—bodies everywhere. It was a morbid sigh, his art. Light breeze flowed in from the small gaps around the door and surrounded their bodies. Itachi started trembling a little, and a hot fever rose ferociously from his belly to envelop his mind and body. He was spent. He did not have the strength in him any longer.

 _Why have I done this?_ the question echoed in the dark chambers of his cruel and silent mind that slept without any peace. It was too late. The sword had fallen through the stale air so many times, and those he sacrificed for Konoha had turned into his unwilling victims. Their faces appeared like misshapen spots on the walls, burning into the eternal, blemished, and sullied canvas that was his soul. They were just streaks of red without a form, without a voice, and he was their souls' liberator!

Itachi hissed through his teeth, but the sleep was too deep. Sasuke stirred under his arm: his eyes popped open; his heart made a terrified jump; and a gasp passed from his soft mouth. His small hand flew to his shoulder to feel Itachi's: he was holding the flesh there in a powerful grip, his hand trembling. It was starting to hurt. Sasuke did not turn his head to look back and tried to pry his hand open. He was successful. He hurriedly crawled away from Itachi on all fours.

Sasuke rolled onto his buttocks, his eyes two black voids as he stared at the sleeping form of his brother. Itachi was trembling and breathing heavily, but Sasuke did not care. He scrambled to his feet, opened the door, and ran out barefooted into the rain. He had to get away—he had to reach Konoha and get help.

An hour passed by and his fever cooled down. The pain was bearable. He moved his hand and felt the sweaty futon under it. A fine tremor shook his body, and he sat bolt upright, looking around. His irises bled red, but he could not see the familiar chakra anywhere. Sasuke was gone! Worry came into his face. A storm was blowing in from the north, and it was raining cats and dogs outside.

Itachi quickly wore his sandals, grabbed his cloak, ran outside his room. The Inn keeper was brushing away dried mud from his oversized belly. Itachi looked at him and asked: "have you seen a small boy run out of here?"

"That impish young 'un," he spoke, appearing out of breath, his fat cheeks red as apples, "I gave 'im a chase, but he was fast. He bolted straight out the front gate and vanished into the forest. I slipped and nearly broke my hip. I sent in two men after 'im, but they lost 'im."

"Where was he headed?" he asked again, raised his hands, and quickly drew the cowl over his head.

The man studied the effect of his face now, dimly apparent in the cloak's shadow. He blinked and breathed in deeply. "Over there," he said and pointed at the large cliff a few hundred feet away from the door, "he disappeared behind it. I won't advise you to go after 'im. The rain's too thick. I couldn't even see my own hand out there. You might slip and break your neck on those steep rocks. I doubt that kid survived the fall behind them." He let out a great deep breath, his stomach jiggling, and then he sagged into his chair.

Itachi did not answer and ran outside. Wind and rain hit him like stone pellets. It was cold—too cold. He heard the sounds of the temple bells muffled through the noise, his Sharingan tearing through the pearly veil of the rain shower. The surroundings were empty. Setting his thoughts against the dreadful feeling, he ran towards the cliff, his feet gathering chakra to carry him over the film of water on the muddy ground.

It was as though he was floating on the currents of air. He ran as fast as he could, pooling all of his chakra into the roots of the chakra veins in his legs; they trembled, muscles ripped, and hot fever clawed its way out of his belly again. But he ignored it. He had to find Sasuke; he would not last long in such a cruel storm.

Water slipped down the steep cliffs and bare trees around him. Thunder thrashed and snarled. Lightning flashed and then slashed the sky innumerable times, lighting it with a bluish fire to blind him. He did not stop. He kept running, ignoring his breaths that grew hot and ragged. Sweat poured down his chest and back in rivulets. If it was not for the water-proof cloak, he would have been soaked to his bones.

Itachi stopped again, Sharingan guiding him to find small traces of footprints in the mud. The rain was thinning. He chased the trail eagerly. Sasuke was just too small and innocent to cover his tracks. His muddy prints were more clear beneath the snarl of branches above his head: almost no flashes of light and rain seeped through them.

The wind dropped, leaving a gentle pitter-patter of a light drizzle behind it. The storm had moved away from above the forest. He looked around again; his feet stopped suddenly, and he took in a deep breath of relief when he found the familiar bundle of chakra sitting inside a natural groove at the base of a large, withered tree.

He jumped down and sniffed the air that was laden with the bitter-sweet smell of autumn and earth. The absence of heavy downpour made the smell swell in all directions. He walked quietly on the soggy ground. The mud beneath his feet assured his silent gait as he moved stiff-legged through the mist gathering around him.

Sasuke had not stirred. He squatted down on his heels and reached into the shallow groove to grab him by the arm; he had fitted his small body in there quite perfectly. Sasuke's eyes flew open, and his free hand shot towards Itachi's to free himself of his grasp.

"Sasuke, it's me," he spoke softly and pulled him gently out of the groove. He did not want to exert too much force; it would frighten the child even more. He could already feel Sasuke's arm convulsing beneath his touch . . . and it made him feel so much shame.

When the shadows moved back from over Sasuke's small face, he saw his countenance clearly: what might have been a frightened face was rendered ghastly and ashen by cold and rain drops shining in the light of the full-moon. Sasuke's eyes were red-rimmed. His nose was red. He had been crying so bitterly.

When Itachi pulled all of Sasuke out of the groove, Sasuke pressed his knuckles to his shivering lips, his legs trembling in mortal fear. And then Itachi smelt a sharp odor emanate from Sasuke's knee-length shorts. He watched as urine flowed down Sasuke's legs, the skin there shaking in shame and fear. He looked up in shock and Sasuke quickly screwed his eyes up.

"Sasuke . . . " he breathed out, horrified that his brother was so afraid of him.

"I-I'm sorry, N-Nii-San," he said between sobs, shivering, "I-I will wash it—I promise—"

Itachi did not say anything; he blew out hot, chakra-infused air at Sasuke's legs, drying the urine there. Sasuke cracked an eye open with his last ounce of energy and looked down to see his legs turn pink. The older one took off his cloak and wrapped it around the small body. He pulled the boy into a tight embrace and then lifted him up without saying a word.

Sasuke did not struggle. Itachi had one arm under his hips, and the other hand was pressed to his back as he walked silently back to the village. The drizzle was cool on his hot skin. It took him several long minutes to make it back to the Inn. It was warm inside. He took Sasuke to the onsen and washed his body clean. The child did not protest. Sasuke did not understand his brother at all; Itachi still frightened him, but he bought him a good meal and gave him a sleeping draught to relax.

It did not take long for sleep to kick in. And even though, looking into Itachi's cool red eyes, Sasuke did not want to close his eyes, he was just too tired to fight it . . .

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The night sky was sundered by light—a new morning. The first weak light came through the paper-screen and fell across his pallid face. He was calm, his countenance sober. In just a day, he looked older than his years. That innocence was gone. Sasuke stared at Itachi's downcast eyes; he looked well-rested and there was a hint of a warm, pink colour in his cheeks.

"Why do _I_ gotta to wear this?" Sasuke asked with a droll twist of his rosy mouth, a small but mighty frown rising to his white brow like lightning in the sky. There was still hesitation and fear in his words, but he was just a little boy: his anger took precedence over everything else.

Itachi looked up—his eyes seemed deeper than usual. Itachi studied his small face for a fleeting moment and adjusted the cloak on his small body again. "Because I don't want anyone to see you," he said and pulled the cowl low over Sasuke's eyes. It instantly cast a shadow over his small features.

Sasuke wanted to ask more, but he kept quiet. His brother was frightening, ghastly, evil. Itachi did not seem remorseful in his eyes, and he felt as though he was a good judge of his sins. He had made up his mind: he would give Itachi a slip somewhere in the city and contact Konoha shinobi. They would save him from this ordeal. So he kept his silence, burying the secret deep inside his little breast, and his heart beat wildly under its weight. It was not made to bear the burthen of something so heavy.

Itachi stood up and wore the cloak. He, too, pulled the cowl low over his face, putting on a natural mask of shadows on his cheeks and lips. "Come along," he spoke softly, his face hidden behind a blurry visage. Sasuke had a Sharingan, but he did not want to see his features that clearly; they frightened him, scared the life out of his little body.

Itachi picked up the bag and flung it over his shoulder, and then he started walking and made his way out of the door. Sasuke followed, taking small steps inside the form of his shadow. Itachi did not say anything to the innkeeper when he let out a loud laugh and said his farewells. His cheeks were like fresh, round, and red tomatoes today. Sasuke loved tomatoes, but he did not like his quivering cheeks.

They stepped outside and saw the sky in a cloudy, grey garb. It would probably rain again today. He looked down and held out a hand to Sasuke. "Grab my hand," he said, and his face tilted down to gaze at the younger one.

"I—I can walk beside you, N-Nii-San," he stuttered and felt his heart shudder at the dark cover his clothes provided. Itachi looked even more sinister in the shadows, and his heart thundered at the sight of him. It could recall the stench of blood lingering about his treacherous body. He did not know what to do . . .

"The streets are busy—if you got lost in the crowd, it would be difficult to find you. I don't want to use my Sharingan, Sasuke—not out here," he said in a voice that sounded sincere to his ears. "If you get tired, I'll carry you. Come."

He hesitated for a moment, and realizing that he would not be able to outrun him, he put his hand gently into Itachi's, ignoring the clamminess of Itachi's palm. Itachi closed his fingers down over it and started walking for the gates. They lay wide open at far end of the street, behind countless faces.

Itachi walked slowly through the crowd, and Sasuke tried his level-best to walk beside him, small legs flashing back and forth to match his steps. Itachi stopped before a few vendors to get supplies for their journey. Sasuke did not understand where they were going.

Where was Itachi taking him? And why had he not killed him? The second question bothered him the most. It made his heart beat with an angry rhythm, but as soon as those slashed and faceless bodies flashed before his eyes, fear took hold of his body and mind. Anger was forgotten in those moments; it was only fear that reined his heart like a ruthless, merciless king reined his favourite horse, thrashing it good, turning its head in the direction he wished. The horse was at the mercy of his unkind whip, and he, at the mercy of his fear.

Oh, how his little heart trembled at the possibility of death upon his brother's sword. He would slash him up good, carve his face with a new instrument for his grotesque art. His brother was such a vile, evil thing. He had no heart. He had no soul. He knew no remorse. He knew no love. That was the truth of it all; the little boy had reasoned.

Sasuke did not realize when he started walking again beside his brother. He could not see the sun any longer behind the drape of clouds; it was gone. They passed through the gates and started walking down another trail that led them out of the fire country's border. They had left Konoha so far behind. His heart sank when Itachi told him that they were a long way from home.

Fear welled up in Sasuke's heart like blood and consumed his body. His fingers began to tremble again as the shadows rose and winds roared about them, surrounding them like a ravenous serpent; it was as if he was about to be devoured by his brother. Itachi would eat him to his bones and leave the carcass for his evil crows. The thought struck his mind like a stab of a keen blade. A whimper slipped from his lips, and his feet wavered on the gritty trail.

Sasuke's breath got stuck in his throat like a round stone—it hurt. He could barely breathe, and then tears came pouring out of his red-flecked eyes and quivered down his trembling skin. Itachi suddenly stopped and looked down. "Sasuke?" he asked, but Sasuke did not answer. Itachi sat down on one knee and grabbed him gently by the shoulders. "What's the matter?" he asked and pushed the cowl back to see his flushed face.

"N-Nothing," Sasuke replied, pressing a knuckle into his eye to try and block the tears—it was no good; they were still coming out, and Sasuke did not know how to stop them. Sunlight barely shone above them, and the forest was shadowed by the dark grip of clouds.

Itachi stroked his tear-streaked cheek, and his mouth turned into a barely discernable smile. "Are you still afraid of me?" Itachi asked, placed his palm against Sasuke's back, and drew him closer. He tilted his face up and planted a kiss there on the forehead.

Sasuke did not say anything. His eyes darted around the forest. They were all alone and the sky was angry. It was just like that night! The fear in his heart was insurmountable like an evil beast—all-consuming, heinous, cold. He wanted to flee into the darkness and find the arms of his father, but he was dead; his own brother had killed him; and he was left to rot in his brother's arm—forever!

"You shouldn't be," Itachi said, and the smile melted away into a melancholic look on his young face. "You should _never_ fear me. You're my brother and I will love you . . . always." Sasuke ignored his own steadily fading weeps as he looked deep into his brother's eyes; then from the deep of that changing maw, a colour rose, and it was red—so, so red that he was lost in the combers that rose to the surface of that rosy ocean. He did not understand his brother at all.

Itachi softly placed a palm over Sasuke's wild heart as if assuring it to sate it fears. The rhythm steadied, his blood cooled, and he hiccupped a few times, bearing a confused countenance. Itachi sharply turned his head away to look at the trees a couple of meters away from him. Leaves rustled and a shinobi jumped down and raised aloft his sword to cut him down.

"There's a bounty on your head, Uchiha," he hissed, smiling with a smug expression. "If I kill you and that young one here, Danzō-Sama will appreciate it."

Itachi's eyes went to the Root mask hanging from his belt. This man had been persistently following him for two days. Itachi did not bother to wait and rose to his feet. With a convulsive, flickering start, Itachi plunged the sword deep into his heart. He met the man's frenzied, pained look with a frigid face. He had killed his own clan in cold blood; what was one _more_ dead man to him now? Nothing.

Blood flowed down his white jacket, soaking it red immediately. His trembling fist opened, and the sword fell to the ground. He, too, fell back and went still, his eyes staring up at the last light he would ever see. Itachi looked back and showed his bloodied face to the small one; Sasuke was staring wide-eyed at the spectacle before him.

The rain kept Itachi's promise. It came down hard, sluicing over them, washing the blood clean from his body. He walked to Sasuke, lifted him up, and cradled him in his arms. He jumped up and leapt from tree to tree against sheets of rain. The ground was soft and weak where he had left the body; it would be buried in the mud come morning—his trail was still safe.

Itachi looked about, and his Sharingan picked out a cave under an overhanging rock some five hundred feet away between steep cliffs. It would do till the storm passed. He ran down the cliffs, his chakra-soaked feet providing a safe passage on the neck-breaking rocks. Wind and rain blew into his back, and Sasuke whimpered in his arms; he was too young to bear such a deathly cold.

He jumped down and ran into the cool refuge of the cave. Sasuke was shivering with cold when he put him down. He shaved up a few kindling he had bought from the vendor and spit out a small flame. They caught fire instantly. Outside, rain ferociously whipped the forest. He glanced at Sasuke who was looking outside with a curious expression.

"Are you hungry?" Itachi asked and sat down cross-legged by the fire.

Sasuke shook his head and quickly looked down to his feet after meeting his eyes. "Come here." He gestured Sasuke to come closer. He hesitated but gave in and took a few steps towards him. Itachi took hold of his wrist and pulled him into his lap. "See? It's warm here. Go to sleep. I'll wake you up when the storm passes," he said and wrapped the cloak around Sasuke's body.

Sasuke leant into his breast and quickly dozed off. The last thing he remembered was a bright flash illuminating the whole sky . . .

# # # # # #

A croaking sound disappeared into the dark depths of the serpent's belly. Its jaws unhinged and a dribble of smelly, slimy saliva fell down to the floor, as they worked vigorously to consume the prey. First, the head went in, wailing. The rest of the body quivered and twitched like a cheap little child's toy as it fought its final battles for survival.

Its shuddering limbs looked very lively in the shadows. They looked bigger and stouter than they were. A row of bright flames burnt on the darkened wicks. They had seen so many perish and disappear into his belly. It was not primal hunger; no, it was a hunger for another skin to reform, another shroud to fool. Everything was a necessity—everything.

So the serpent's massive body writhed and shuddered as the groans of its victim moved through its bones and muscles, like exciting little sparks in its dead gaze to jolt it to let out a satisfied, choked hiss. As it moved its muscles forward, it fastened its jaws around the supple bosom. How tenderly was it being caressed right before her death? They would find her genitals, too, lick at the juncture and that slit that would flutter in an odd sort of excitement to fool itself to believe in . . . something else.

Her feet trembled still more as her face met the acid of its stomach; the screams were muffled by the pulsing walls of its slick stomach. Outside, the tiny snakes that stuck to its body, like leeches, vibrated in glee and contentment. Then it was gone, appearing like a round bulge in its body. No more screams—no more struggles. It would die out peacefully inside it to fashion a new form.

It waited for hours for her to melt: skin, flesh, and bones—all gone. Not even a hair on her head remained. She had become a part of it, a new mask for a new audience. The outer shell melted away slowly, and waves of hissing sounds moved through the silence. Flames flickered, and a foetid smell suffused the air; it was of decay and rot.

It went on for several minutes, and out came the head of a man from the foamy, white mass that had spread over the laboratory floor like a primal gush of rapture. Yellow irises looked about. Like two fires in the pits of a demon's belly they were—accursed, unholy.

Everything was familiar: bottles, tubes, books, and all. Even the pallid light, spilling forth through the interstice between the blackened jars on his right, was the same. Everything was the same. He rolled onto his back, feeling the white slime cling to his body as if he was a filthy babe pulled out from a dying mother's womb, waiting to be given the ablution to begin his days as a mortal. Everyone was immortal in a mother's belly—everyone.

And then he felt himself change, felt the paroxysms of metamorphosis inflicted upon his newly birthed form. His genitals melted away—the bow of his cock and the flaccid testes, gone. It was no more than a lump of molten flesh in the white foam, growing dark there like the first stain of menstruation.

He felt a pain there between his legs as though someone had made a little snip and cut his flesh open. Blood popped and smooth, puffy flesh rose around it to hide the small passage: another snip and another hole—every single one within inches of each other; one to fuck and the other to do his business.

He reached down and slid a smooth finger down between the joining fleshes, parting them to feel the first ooze come out of the quivering cunt. It was made to take in a nice fat cock for senseless fucking. He was no longer a man. The reality repulsed him. Curse this ritual that drove him to madness in moments of hunger! He stared down his bosom and saw swelling buds appear upon his breast; they grew right before his eyes—supple, soft, round. They invited the impatient hands and lusty tongues of men.

How much had he changed in the last half hour? Too much. He stood up on two unfamiliar, frail legs of a woman. No longer was his body strong and robust: it was dainty, soft, and delicate now. He staggered to the mirror on the right, dragging bits of white slime trailing behind him like the hair of an unsightly crone.

There he stood before the mirror and wiped a hand thoughtlessly across his face. He wore a new mask today: a face of a woman. His lips twitched, and the woman smiled, too. Her nose was soft and flared slightly at the bottom; the lips were plump and sweet, made for kisses; it was just the eyes that gave her away—they had this hard male edge to them a woman would never possess.

He breathed out a loud sigh. At least, he had something left of himself there. His thoughts went back to the young man with the Sharingan. He would have to wait for another year to devour him like this, relish his form in a way he could not this time. And at this thought, his insides vibrated, and the slit twitched like an eager harlot's, as though he desired his cock to fill him, too. He was a snake, and he could wait for a new, perfect garb . . .

# # # # # #


	3. The Guard Squad

**Chapter Three** : The Guard Squad

 **AN** : This small first part combines a lot of underlying themes. Read it with care as this is the way I tend to write things regarding the combination of characterization and themes. This chapter is like a calm before the storm. Like ' **Vehemence** ', this makes a heavy use of the ' **Dream Landscape** ' phenomenon in Literature. This is where plot usually comes to a standstill just for characterization and thematic exploration and expansion.

# # # # # #

An undignified landscape of his mind mired in such a grim solemnity. No, there was a sort of mockery in the precipitous murders of men, women . . . sleeping children. He lacked the just temerity to feel the first violent shudders of sin. What had he committed? His mind was so lost. It searched and searched for the faint thread of justification in the grand scheme of salvation. He, too, was a young man who coveted it, secretly, tenderly. Such a sweet thought it was.

And the winds of storm tasted the pulses throbbing along his neck. A sudden delicious quiver raced down his spine, but the sleep was strong; it was powerful. He had known the soft arms of lovers and the decadent lips of harlots, as they curved into the softest of smiles before they took him in—a pleasure of the eyes hinged upon the relish of the spectator. And he always was a cold and aloof one to wear that garb of indifference. He was crafted by cold hands in the lull of a cosmic storm.

But it hardly mattered. Sleep went on, racing and chasing behind the vaporous veils of his memories: old and new; weak and strong; soft and wild; they all conjoined there with such an utter lack of fascination that he was surprised at the mediocrity of his spirit's mechanisms. Was he really so simple? He could not say. The word-making tongue had dropped like a silent and dry leaf; it awaited a vile foot of reality to scream out with a loud crunch. Shattered and wrecked were his spirit and shadow: an unholy union of two holy occupants within a single unrelenting space.

Sleep was such a sweet companion: a keeper of his secrets. It locked all of him into her breast like a good mother, but it was so quick to chastise, so quick to demean, so quick to show him all and nothing. Sometimes, he lumbered along the frail walls of memories; other times, he was threatened by their ghostly presence. They floated and went into him and germinated there like the festering boils of pestilence. He, too, once was such an insidious disease within a woman's womb—those chambers never knew what they could create and bring into this world. Such was their work, and they were silent in their workings—cold machines of change. They held and produced. That was all . . . the rest was written by the little miscreants. Fates were the True mothers of Time and Men. The rest were just tales.

A black plague. A black heart. A chisel and a blackened metal. It took the blows and shattered his sleeping specter. So much blood—so much of it. Little youngins and babes met their makers without a prayer to the Kami. There was such a song on their lips, and the wild and ferocious and faceless contours of death wiped it away too soon. A formation of their screams mellowed into the faint coos of the child he now held in his arms. Some did not even get such a blessing . . . sleep, its endless abyss of repose, was their final destination. He was generous, was he not?

And the poor show of red on the paper slides of his life's theater went on. One image, then two—it went on and on, till his heart felt the hammers of Time and the lull of the storm vanished into the shattering, keening cries of the wind. And then they drowned into the suffocating moans of the weeping mothers, their bloody hands raised in a servile manner, words of mercy pouring out of the lips.

Shadows slinked to the right, and he just knew there was nothing more to be done. A swish, and another, and another one . . . and walls bore the signs of the quick works of his art. A watery paint: red, red, and more red. Sounds vanished and colours remained. They suddenly looked so dull and old behind the final gauzy veil of a new night.

Past was . . . just a past. He could not change that, and he took comfort in the thoughts that he had done the right thing; that he had saved the victims from slipping down the forlorn and damnable path of corruption: a path that was written and crafted by the foolish, unpracticed, mortal hands of Men. He could not see past the wall of precepts; it was tall and sturdy and he was made to be its sole defender.

There was such a sweet sort of comfort in this thought. He cherished it for it made the blackening walls vanish into small wisps of an unearthly smoke. Evanescent was its smell and divine was its vanishing splendor. Lies made it all so easy, but the sigh of relief had just made it past his sleeping lips as a wayward, free ghost that it changed. It warped and twisted, and such was the state of these contortions that he saw the mangled corpses of his mother . . . and his father.

There was a cold sensation of a cruel shudder then, and his heart took a monstrous blow to crash against his bony frame. His whole body stuttered like an old machine that had run its course, to be dismantled by a new craftsman's hands. There was blood smeared upon their lips. His father's promises were gone. His mother's bosom was cold. He had felt its beats as a child. Gone were the sweetness of the tongue and the warmth of the hearts—another tale, another half-hearted regret. He could bear it. He could . . .

His eyes fluttered open, feeling the soft chill of the wind. The storm was mellowing. It was spent like his dreams. And he lowered his gaze almost thoughtlessly and beheld the soul-shaking beauty of innocence; and his heart took another hard hit. There was a soft smile on the curve of the rosy lips there, a faint thought of reassurance in the dreams. Blush had spread there on the soft skin of the round cheeks. The fire was still warm.

He felt the cheek there with a tender touch of his hand. Sasuke was asleep, and for the first time, he did not fear his touch as he did before. A wave of something bizarre sluiced over him. He did not know what it was, but it lightened his battered spirit. It sent out a surge of a soft pleasure and a sweet sense of abandonment it had not known in so long. And so, a faint smile ghosted over Itachi's lips like a lost traveler. It trembled there as if an unsure thing and slowly melted into the cold look in his countenance.

The sudden flicker of lightning and fire brightened the sheen in his eyes. Their fondness for red was lost today, sleeping . . .

# # # # # #

He heard a squelching sound approach them, so he stopped and looked back, hunting for the source of the sound. A few seconds passed and he listened, eyes feverishly awash in a dangerous red light. From the lush leaves rose a shadow into the misty morn's light: it was a wolf with a grizzled tawny fur-coat. Raindrops glistened as though silver streaks in its fur; a darker wash over the back gave the fur a brownish tint.

It had a long and unusual mouth, few teeth shewing from its snout. For a split second, it regarded them with benign eyes and then stretched its neck full length, features contorting with an untamed intensity—a row of teeth bared; body shuddering; muzzle contracting into a threatening, feral countenance; a low growl ringing in its long throat like from a rusty machine. He had invaded its territory with his little companion.

Suddenly, those yellow eyes dilated in alarm at the sight of danger in his gaze. The wild features mellowed, and it emitted a quick whine. Then it skidded a little to the right in haste, as if it had lost its bearing, turned around, and leapt back into the refuge of the forest, throwing a little mud onto the foliage in its wake.

He grabbed a small breath and looked skyward again; it was still grey and dreary. He could smell the musk of earth penetrate the cold air. He started walking again, his sure grip tightening on the small hand. Sasuke was quiet: he had not spoken a word to him. He could not really blame him. He was afraid—afraid of him. Sasuke was just a child—a babe.

Frost-coated smooth stones crunched beneath their feet as they walked the length of a pebble-riddled path. Mist rose in waves from between the trees. Shadows of the night still lay thick around them. Morning would be the one to chase them to their dark and gloomy crevices.

Itachi turned his head a little to the left and lowered his eyes just a bit to look upon the brow of the child that was scrunched into a little peak above the red nose. Sasuke's red mouth was dropped into an innocent frown. He was tired and angry—little legs trying to keep up.

Shadows crossed Sasuke's face, and as if he could feel them tread with an uncharacteristic lack of precision on his skin, his frown deepened in irritation. But he still kept quiet, working himself into a harmless rage only a child could exhibit. Even the wolf had not made his heart afraid. Perhaps Sasuke thought him to be a more evil predator. Itachi grimaced.

But Itachi, too, was stubborn. He wanted Sasuke to speak, say something to him, tell him he was tired. Even a few words from his soft lips would ease his worries. Then he would gladly lift him up into his arms and carry him all the way to the next village. But he was silent . . . puffing now, the ruby on his plump cheeks showing up all the brighter against the bright light of dawn's sun shining through the clouds.

Itachi lost his will to battle Sasuke's anger any longer when he stumbled forward with exhaustion and tripped over little stones that mapped their path. He stopped, bent his knee, and sat down, tucking the edges of the warm cloth around Sasuke's head like a hoodie. Itachi looked at his deep frown and the warm blush burning in his cheeks the way coal does.

Brushing the hair away from his forehead, he asked in one of his softer tones: "are you tired?"

Sasuke merely looked away. His nose turned bright red, rosy lips trembled, and a shiny wetness appeared in his eyes. He took in a single sharp breath, tears spilling from his eyes; but still he did not say anything and clenched his jaws together with a strange determination, his small breast rising and falling in quick and shallow bursts . . . and he stood before Itachi as though a soundless shinobi.

It was not his place to take Sasuke's anger away from him. What was a child like him left with now but the ghostly remains of a deep fire that prodded his spirit to writhe, with an innocent vengeance he was too young to name—yet? Itachi breathed in deeply, lifting the fragments of Sasuke's hatred on his shoulders. It was an immense burden, but he would carry it—it was what he was born to do.

Itachi lifted him up, steadying the child in his arms. A soft wind was blowing in his direction, and his rain-pelted cloak streamed at his back like a shapeless wing. From this far, he could see points of light in the fog-filled hollow. His cloudy breaths hung for a moment before his face and then dispersed. The village was not far. He started walking again, battling the wind and a child's wild heart.

By the time he reached the gates, the sun was up and the small village was bursting with people. The guards had snuffed out the fires by the gates. Fine plumes of smoke rose from the tip of the charred torches. A tulip sign hung below the crooked branches of the leaning trees.

He stepped through the gate and adjusted Sasuke in his arms. He had fallen asleep again. His face was quite calm now, devoid of the anger it had worn out of a necessity to show him his fury; and it had been mighty on his face. Now, just a stubborn wisp of it remained that clove to the corners of his red mouth: he was frowning a little in his sleep.

Picking his way through the crowd, Itachi searched for the inn. The ground beneath his feet was marked with deep furrows from carriage wheels and countless footprints. It was hard and rough. Mud had been removed from its surface. He saw a few Suiton users manipulate it to clear the paths around a cluster of homes.

Wind had slowed down to a crawl now, redolent of spices wafting from the inn. The smell of it was weak, lost in the rising musk of men. He did not want to stay here too long, but Sasuke was so exhausted. He would have to spend the night here or risk Sasuke's well-being. He had been vigilant in leaving no signs of himself behind. Rains had been kind; they had covered his tracks and obscured his path and given him a blessing he sought.

When Itachi pushed open the heavy door, a charm chinked, announcing his arrival. The babble died down momentarily and all eyes transfixed to him. Then, as if a wave of something rippled through the room, they began talking again. The door thudded shut behind him, and a little puff of wind blew against his right cheek before a steady warm current crawled across his skin. It was warm in here.

Fires burnt bright in the hearths, and red-hot coals sizzled in few of the sunken fireplaces. A foggy smoke obscured the faces of many men. They sat in groups upon the matted-floor, with full sake-cups in hands. Few of the old ones played checkers.

He walked towards the counter where a pudgy man sat behind a small table. There were bits of bread and streaks of sake in his big whiskers. Sweat streamed from his heavily-lined brow and splashed onto the small round glasses, which framed large sleepy eyes. There were a few blisters on his cheeks that were adorned with prickly grey hair. The man still had not learnt to shave off his hair properly. Itachi doubted he ever would—he was past that age.

A young woman sat beside him, her face covered by a ghostly white-powder, her lips red like the rose. Two fish-like eyebrows floated above her bright eyes. There were so many pins in her large buns that he lost the count after the fifteenth one. Each had little ornaments dangling from their heads, and they tinkled and chinked whenever she moved her head in exaggerated gestures.

"Pay the bills after the battles are fought. You're such a fool," she said and opened a colourful fan with a practiced flick of her wrist. The man merely frowned, slumping over the scrolls still more—his belly popping out like a big pot—that lay scattered on the table. A few were tucked beneath a cup that was filled with a yellow-coloured sake.

He stopped and pulled back the hood, drawing the attention of the woman. Her face came alight with a wide smile, eyes glinting with coquettish mischievousness. "Ah, come to register for the battles, have you, beautiful one?" she asked, pearly white teeth showing in her smile.

The old man's eyes shot up, and he looked at his face from over the cloudy spectacles; they were perched rather precariously on the soft and sweaty tip of his bulbous nose that had numerous pellet-sized black-holes around the edges. He squinted them for a second, sighed, and his shoulders slumped forward as though in defeat. Then he went back to his business.

"Battles?" he asked and looked around, noticing swords and axes tucked under many tables. He had been so distressed that they slipped his notice.

The woman let out a 'ho' sound, jumped to her feet, and climbed down from the counter so fast that he was impressed with her fine dexterity to make her way down, without tripping over the many flowing layers of such a large tent-sized kimono she wore.

Adjusting the long sleeve of the kimono one last time, with a theatric gesture, she inhaled sharply behind the fan pressed against her petal-like lips. "Such a beautiful little boy. Your son?" she asked and craned her neck like a curious turtle and stretched her hand to brush her fingers on the round cheek; her fish-brows went further up to nearly brush against her hairline.

"Yes," he said and watched as Sasuke stirred a little and buried his face deeper into the cloak, small fingers bunching his shirt tightly in sleep. "You said something about battles."

"New here, are you?" she asked in a flirtatious tone and emitted a girlish laugh. The old man's eyes shot up with the same intensity again; and again he sighed, his face fell, and he went back to the mundane task of managing . . . finances, he imagined. A cracked brush was held with good convection between his stubby fingers' grip. Runny ink plopped on the scroll, soaking through and leaving fat stains on the paper.

"Just passing by," he said and pressed his hand against the back of Sasuke's sweaty head. He was in a deep slumber. Even the noise had not driven his sleep away.

"Yoritomo-Sama has arranged a few battles in the evening. Little contests . . . " she trailed off and turned her head almost mechanically, like a doll, to cast a gaze filled with contempt at the shaggy man, who had dragged in an unpleasant odour into the inn, " . . . to separate grain from the chaff. The winner will be awarded money—and whores." She licked her lips in a lascivious manner.

A gruff grumble passed the man's lips and frown-lines appeared in her forehead, and her lips turned down with irritation. "Go back to your business, you old fool. I won't bite him," she scoffed, and then the smile and blush returned to her face as if by design.

"How much for one room?" he asked and moved his gaze over the murky shadows of houses in the paper-screens.

"Fifteen silver coins," she said and waved the delicate fan to and fro.

Fifteen-coins were too expensive, but he did not have a choice. He reached his hand down to tap once on the satchel that hung heavily by a sturdy leather strap from his shoulder. He mulled over it a moment longer and gave a silent nod.

"Splendid. This way," she said with a sweet smile in her voice and tilted her head towards the dark corridor behind the elevated counter. She started walking with light steps on the polished floor. From behind, it looked as if she was floating.

The corridor was gloomy, and dark diluted into a fine grey tone by the white lights from the lanterns. No voices came from beyond the closed doors; they were probably made soundproof with seals. Their steps were soundless on the new wood despite the vibrations that rippled through the sturdy material. It had soaked up the cold well, too, and had swelled a bit around the doors—they appeared to be jammed in-between the ceiling and the floor.

"The grumpy old man is my husband," she said with a weary sigh and took out a jangling set of keys tucked in her obi.

"I never would've guessed," he said tonelessly, and she broke into a soft, tinkling laughter that rattled through the corridor, almost rising in volume when it hit them back.

"Cheeky!" she crooned and stopped and turned around to face him, baring her teeth now, eyes narrowing with a sultry playfulness that adorned her cheeks, too, as an even brighter blush.

She turned around again and pressed herself against the door, her face contorting with exertion. Then she pushed forward several times with audible grunts. The door groaned but did not budge. At last, the door opened with a jerk. "Cold does that sometimes." She looked up at the swaying charm and reached up to pull down a cob-web dangling from its side. Then she wiped the sheen from her white forehead.

She stepped back lightly and gestured him to proceed inside. Itachi clutched Sasuke tighter to himself when he emitted a small sound of impatience and stepped in. It was a warm and spacious room. The fire was hot and the room was well-lit and warm. He looked back and watched the shadows creep back over her face like a falling veil.

"Anything else you need . . . " she trailed off and flicked open the fan again, her face turning inquisitive.

"Meru," Itachi said and patted Sasuke's head once and then rested his hand on the small of his back. He thought about the battles and the money again. He was running short on money: he needed more. "The battles—are the registrations closed?"

Stepping into the room and the light from the fireplace, she spoke, "no. You want the money and the whores? Wouldn't the little boy be left perplexed by his beloved Otō-San canoodling with giddy, greedy trollops?" Then she was laughing again with a bold disposition, white throat quivering.

Itachi did not say anything and watched as her laughter died down; then she stared with her pretty mouth parted as though in desire. "I'll add your name to the list," she said, her features going from mischievous to curious. Then she backed away and left the room and closed the door behind her with all the strength she could muster. The windows rattled for a brief moment before the vibrations stopped completely. The room was engulfed in silence once more, and only the continual crackling of the fire disturbed its formless presence.

When night came, Itachi could no longer see the shadows of the homes on the paper-screen—it was stretched taut in the delicate frame. Now, a misshapen shadow of a small tree was spread across its form.

Sasuke was awfully feisty. Itachi was happy that he was, at least, speaking to him. Sasuke did not like his name, and he was sure as hell not content with this father and son arrangement; but Tama was a beautiful name—Sasuke, indeed, was a jewel. He was all he had now. He was his darling. Sasuke was just too young to understand it . . .

Itachi had managed to convince him, but unbidden questions still poured from his lips . . . and they doused his warm bravery with cold doubts. It was not wise to take Sasuke to the battles, but he could not leave him alone, either. He could run away again, and this time, he might get killed. Wolves prowled the forest, hungry, and they would not let an easy meal slip their greedy jaws.

It was for the best, Itachi had convinced himself as he moved through a noisy throng of armed men in the manor—mighty swords and axes glinting in their hands and silent on their backs. Their voices bounced off the walls in a discordant manner.

Big pillars stood tall in the hall, glazed with a fresh sheen of red paint. He had no idea this man was so wealthy. The floor was stained with muddy footprints, but he could still see his own reflection and Sasuke's; the child curiously looked down at himself with a small smile spreading across his face; it was a blurry image amidst a sea of smudges.

A very thin man with big glasses appeared from behind a partition-screen and the hall suddenly went silent. He wore an expensive grey kimono and held a scroll in one bony hand and a thin brush in the other one. Sparse curly hair framed his long face and sallow cheeks, pressed down at the top by a tall clerical hat, which he adjusted rather fruitlessly to make a show of it. And there was a big mole right under his lower lip—tucked between his protruding chin and the sagging lip.

He cleared his throat into the hollow silence and passed his gaze momentarily over the tense faces and the glinting armours in the white lights of the lanterns, as if out of habit. "Meru, Nomura, Takeshi, and Rafu," he said and stared down from over his glasses with a sharp tilt of his head. "Make your way in." Then he disappeared with haste in a flurry of aristocratic garments that were odd for his frame and estate. _Odd fellow_ , he thought.

Itachi firmed his hold on Sasuke's hand and walked behind three other men. One of them was rather big and burly. He had a large axe strapped to his broad back. As they turned into a corridor and an orange splash of light came in their direction, a long wave of shadow crossed over his form. The man was tall and he was wide and his armour was thick. Without Ninjutsu—if he ended up battling him—it would be impossible to fell him with his sword.

He let out a small sigh and listened to the quiet sounds of Sasuke's little steps. There was excitement in his gait. He was trying to keep up, and his face was filled with such innocent curiosity. He had never been to battles before. This would be his first one. And _this_ was the only thing that quelled his anger.

After a few more moments of silent walking, they made it into another hall. It was wide and dark around the corners. Four lanterns hung from four pillars and a red space, like a stagnant pool of blood, was arranged between them for battle. There was no water anywhere. At least, no one would be able to make potent their Suiton Ninjutsus. He breathed a sigh of relief, but it was a short-lived moment.

That same thin man re-appeared from behind another partition screen and whispered into a wooden-frame made with crisscrossing bars. A toothy smile crossed his face. He did not look any less unpleasant. Then he spoke, appearing a little more jubilant this time: "Meru and Rafu, make your way between the pillars. Battle it out. You're not allowed to kill your opponent or use any poisons." He made a few shooing gestures as though he was dealing with dogs. "Well, go! I haven't got all day."

The woman from the inn came running, her kimono flying in her wake in waves. "I came to see you," she spoke in elation. "Give him to me. I shall take care of him till you sort out that big man."

Sasuke looked at her warily. Itachi had no choice, so he sat down and turned his face into the shadows, his eyes glowing red. "Go with her and don't run off anywhere," Itachi whispered and passed an impatient hand over Sasuke's head. The fires in Itachi's eyes thawed—it was a secret shared with the dark . . . away from the prying gaze of men.

Sasuke moved towards her of his own volition, and she scooped him up and pelted his rosy cheeks and lips with so many kisses. "I shall give you a treat," she said breathlessly and moved away and went behind the screen, obscured from his gaze.

The burly man waited for him in the smooth flood of lights with a grin on his face. He had pulled his axe out—one hand was curled tight around the handle and the other touched the ornamented pommel in thoughtless delight.

This was the last man he wanted to battle, but it was not as if he had a choice. He took out the thin sword from its sheath and took a battle stance, shrugging his shoulders to rid the knots in his back, throwing the cloak back over his shoulders. He breathed in and out once and took the sword in both hands. Sweat dripped from his brow. This would be the first time in a long, long time when he would fight a man without his Sharingan.

He did not give Itachi any time to draw a second breath and lunged at him at a frenzied pace. A grey blur passed before Itachi's eyes, the axe cleaving cleanly through the band of light. Out of instinct, Itachi's muscles rippled and he shrank into the floor, avoiding the blow that would have cut his head in half. The big guy was fast!

Rafu did not miss a beat and his axe came crashing down again, a howl coming from the depths of his throat. Itachi braced his hand against the floor and planted his foot in Rafu's hard breast, and using that as a foothold, flipped back a couple of feet away from him.

Rafu staggered back, feet thudding on the floor, a thick muscle bulging like a swollen leech in his strong jaw; his face morphed into a cadaverous smile. Itachi would have to bare his belly to end this. There were gaps in Rafu's armour—around the arm-guards and the breast-plate.

Big hands tightened on his axe and he came at Itachi again. He swung the axe wide, and Itachi slipped in-between his broad axe and his belly; his sword collided with his axe and sent a painful loud thrum through his skin, bones, and muscles. Rafu lifted his axe up, and predictably, it came down again—Rafu had put his whole weight into his strike. Itachi, too, did the same and blocked his bone-crushing overhead chop with a fluid motion of his sword. The ring of the metals colliding rippled through the hall and bounced back at him, hitting his hot, sweat-riddled body like cold pebbles.

And Itachi had put chakra into his arms this time: warm, potent chakra burnt in his veins like fire. The sheer force behind Itachi's strike sent his axe high up and exposed his broad belly. And Itachi hit his sword heavily against the side of the plate. The blow sent Rafu reeling back, his hands clawing the pommel to keep his loosening grip, but it was already slipping through his trembling fingers.

A big gash appeared in Rafu's plate, but the sword had not sunk in far enough to cut his skin. His strong and sure hands found the axe again, and he gripped it tightly with a new resolve, his eyes two unholy pits of fire in the hall. He started for Itachi, slowly this time, but his trembling gait and raspy breaths did not belie his cowardice. Rafu was afraid . . . and he did not know why.

This man was nothing before his bulky stature and malevolent appearance. Rafu had defeated such pretty, dainty things like him in countless battles, sullied them good in his bed. But there was just something about his unusually solemn gaze and piercing eyes that sent a shiver crawling through his body to his soul; and Rafu began to feel a shiver grip his bones, and it would not let go. It just—would not let them go!

So Rafu snarled and charged. He would get him, he would fell him, and he would sully him. In a flash of light, all of the sleeping muscles in the lighter man's body jumped. His body moved quick with a perfect balance. It was like a beautiful dance, whilst Rafu was as frenzied as a wild beast—clawing, gripping, howling.

Rafu could not see him and flailed about his axe, hitting the floor to get his cloak but it moved so fast as if it had slipped right through the blow. Wood's splinters flew into the air, and Rafu barely managed to pull the axe free, but not in time. A hard foot landed in his breast and the loose part of the plate clanked and flew up. It was a harmless moment of distraction, but not one Itachi could not avail; and with a blinding movement of his sword, he sheered open a big wound in Rafu's breast with a quick, upward slash.

Rafu's face muscles pulled taut, and he turned his head and shut his eyes with a searing pain. It burnt. He hit the floor with a resounding thud and a loud whine; blood flowed down his breast and thighs in hot streams and collected on the smooth floor in pools, merging with the floor's colour like a darker paint and leaking into the broken part of the wood. It was over.

He could not get up, and the sound of the accursed cleric buzzed in his ears as he clawed at his wounded chest, and after a few moments, everything went dark . . .

Itachi stood over him, his breathing calm. It was then, when Rafu had gone quiet, that the sounds of claps echoed through the hall. A man in exquisite robes emerged from the dark: he had a broad smile on his shrewd face and the bearing of an aristocrat. He looked upon Itachi for a fleeting moment and spoke: "you are a man befitting of the guard-squad. Money seems like a small price for your skill."

And he just stared back, not sure of the words that _should_ pass his lips . . .

# # # # # #

 **EN** : The paper-slide is a reference to the **Kami Shibai** Theater for children that's still quite popular in Japan, albeit it's a tradition that was more prevalent in the olden times.

 **Tama** means _a jewel_ and **Rafu** means _net._

 **Shew** is an old-fashioned spelling of **show**.

The word **darling** isn't exclusive to romance as many wrongly believe. It's an old-fashioned term that's used for someone you love or who's very dear to you. It can be used for children, parents, or siblings.


End file.
